


i kinda fell half in love and you're to blame

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Confessions, F/F, First Kiss, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Truth serum fic, but like, dumb gays, needs a nap, post s12, thasmin, thirteen needs to stop stealing yaz's phone, thirteen's ok she just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: Yaz has never been so grateful to have moved out when, in the quiet bliss of the early hours of the morning, no interruptions can pause her self-indulgence.Until there’s a knock at her front door, then a resounding thump, as though something’s been thrown at it with force.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 42
Kudos: 189





	i kinda fell half in love and you're to blame

**Author's Note:**

> MASSIVE thank you to @paintedviolet for betaing this and helping me with ideas, as well as @yasminkhans for her encouragement and help!!!!! you should all check out their stunning fics asap!!!!
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Peeling away her beer-infused uniform, after what feels like the longest night shift in her entire career, is satisfying and relieving and bridging on  _ euphoric _ , but the hot, steaming bath which follows throws it entirely to the kerb. 

Yaz has never been so grateful to have moved out when, in the quiet bliss of the early hours of the morning, no interruptions can pause her self-indulgence. 

Until there’s a knock at her front door, then a resounding  _ thump _ , as though something’s been thrown at it with force. 

Defences immediately up, Yaz slips from curved, warm porcelain and scrabbles for her pyjamas — a loose t-shirt and a pair of tartan shorts — and tip-toes through her kitchen to the door to her flat. She stumbles across a rolling pin in a brisk scurry through her cutlery drawer, which she holds aloft on her approach.

Noting regretfully that she doesn’t look at all threatening, Yaz fixes a glare on the door before she swings it open. 

With lightning speed, she manages to catch the tumbling figure of her best friend, but not before a faint thud announces the greeting between the Doctor’s nose and her solid wooden floor. By the time she has her hauled up against her chest, where the alien slurs and groans, deep crimson has started seeping in a slow river from the Doctor’s nose to Yaz’s plain black t-shirt. Alarmed, she props her up to seek out eyes which remain closed and then follows the lazy trail of blood now coating her upper lip. “Doctor? What’s happened to you?”

“Yaz,” is all she gets before she slumps forward again. So, winding an arm around her waist and looping the Doctor’s arm around her shoulders, she guides her into the adjoining living room and towards her beloved purple sofa. “Bed — bed,  _ please _ . I’m so  _ tired _ .”

Yaz’s bed is plush at the Doctor’s back as she’s laid across it, left to mumble incoherently while Yaz sweeps into the bathroom for supplies to wipe up her bloodied nose and lips. 

The Doctor’s focus is on the dusting of plastic, glow in the dark stars littering her bedroom ceiling when Yaz returns, climbing onto the edge of the double bed and gently patting her shoulder. In the low light of her bedside lamp, she can spot the foggy sheen over the Doctor’s heavily dilated pupils. She’s not drunk, despite her first assumptions — her experiences on Sheffield’s streets make her certain of that.

“Hey, mind if I clean you up?”

The Doctor’s eyes are lazy in seeking her out, her dopey smile even slower. She nods groggily, raising her chin when Yaz leans in to dab a tissue just beneath her nose. It’s stopped bleeding already, thankfully, so she throws her worries of a broken nose onto the backburner for now.

“Doctor,” Yaz probes again as she gathers up the residual blood clinging to the corner of her mouth, eyeing the reddish lump gracing her forehead in open concern. “Can you tell me what happened? What got you in this state? ‘Cause you’re showing all the signs of substance abuse right now and I need to know how to help you. Can Time Lords even  _ get high _ ?” 

While she waits for the Doctor to find her voice, she cups her cheek to tip her head forward and scan her head for any more bruising.

“The Kilvarian police thought I were a prisoner when I turned up on their ship,” she starts, words robotic on her tongue. “They knocked me unconscious, tied me up, inserted pravda serum into my veins and held me captive until they figured I was telling the truth. And Time Lords can’t usually get high. But we  _ can  _ get drunk on ginger; that used to be  _ tons  _ of fun.” All at once she softens, head tilting into the welcome warmth of Yaz’s palm. Her eyes flutter shut like a feline, a contented smile pulling at her lips. “Your hands are really soft, Yaz.”

“Wh—  _ Doctor _ ,” Yaz falters, brows pinched in confusion. “Doctor, what’s pravda serum?”

“Pravda serum, from the planet Kura, basically your standard truth serum. Very advanced. Lasts approximately six hours in the emotional epicentres of the brain, give or take a few minutes.” The casual, albeit monotone echo to the Doctor’s voice is juxtaposed perfectly with the fear clogging up Yaz’s throat and rendering her speechless. If the Doctor senses her quickening pulse, she does nothing to show it. 

The Doctor’s chin tips upwards again, and she takes a long, slow pull of oxygen through her lungs, eyes fluttering closed and a hum asserting her contentment. Her smile is curious when she meets her gaze again, brows lifting. “Have you always worn that perfume? It’s really nice. I used it once when you went home for a few days, but it didn’t smell as good as when you’re wearing it.” 

Hazel eyes widen in unison with Yaz’s own a millisecond after her speil, a calloused hand closing over her mouth to stop any more words escaping. “Sorry.”

“Doctor,” Yaz starts, cheeks tinted pink. She saves that tidbit of information for a near-future discussion, or perhaps just for her own personal collection of the Doctor’s admittances. “What can I do to stop it?”

Her palm falls away so she can respond, but her cheeks remain pink and warm as though kissed by the sun without protection. “You can’t. I just have to wait it out. S’fine, I’ll just take a nap. That’s why I’m here.” She has to withhold a flinch when Yaz raises a hand to examine one of her reddened wrists. 

“You came  _ here _ just to take a nap?” Yaz teases gently despite the small, selfish voice inside her head which squeals in delight that the Doctor had turned to  _ her _ over anyone else. And now she’s in her bed, for once not protesting against the attention Yaz pays to her bruises and scrapes. 

The Doctor’s eyes are still dilated, lashes blinking lazily, but they soften when she catches Yaz’s gaze again. “‘Course. I like being near you all the time, Yaz — even though it terrifies me enough to keep me awake at night.” 

When she raises her right hand if only to distract herself from the alien’s honest words, the Doctor’s hissing breath forces her to lighten her hold. “ _ God _ , sorry. Are they painful?”

The Doctor nods even though she doesn’t consent to her honest answer, the fight between the chemicals still inhibiting her system and her own free will clear in hazel eyes. “Yeah. Quite a bit actually, but I’m trying to be subtle about it so I don’t worry you. I do that a lot. Bit of a habit, really. Don’t wanna seem like a burden, ‘specially to you.”

_ Don’t, don’t, don’t.  _ “Doctor, why do I terrify you? I’m just me. You’re — well — you’re  _ you.  _ Brilliant, amazing, intelligent you. We’re just friends. Why do I—” 

The Doctor’s eyes are soft like putty and piercing and hopeful when she regards her, despite the racing pulses in her neck and the pleading furrow to her brows. “Are we?” 

“Headphones!” Yaz interrupts quickly, swallowing around a sudden lump in her throat and the guilt sending her heart into a frenzy. She’d backed her into that corner. She’d taken advantage. If she keeps herself quiet and keeps the Doctor distracted, the situation can slip away like words in chalk when the rain comes. “Um — you can listen to my music. To help you — uh, not think too hard.” 

“Yaz,” the Doctor murmurs, catching her wrist when she goes to slip from the bed. “Yaz, there’s something I need to tell you,” she divulges, eyes more open than she’s ever witnessed previously. There’s a mixture there; heat, fear, desire, love, all combined in a heady, hypnotising gaze.

She’s at her most vulnerable, and Yaz will  _ not _ take advantage of that even if it means the stubborn, shielded alien will never truly fill up the spaces between pumping blood vessels and give in. She could never be so selfish so to sentence an immortal to a meagre blip in her timeline. 

So she does what she has to do to keep herself in one, splintering piece. 

“No,” Yaz interjects, shaking her head despite the way her heart screams out for her attention. “Please, don’t. Not now,” she implores, curling a hand around her mobile and connecting it up to a pair of headphones. She doesn’t dare look at the Doctor when she brings up her most calming playlist — the one she utilises most on the way home from a heavy shift.

“Tell me tomorrow, if it’s something  _ you _ want to say, not the serum,” she instructs, words light in their breaking. 

“What if I can’t say it when it’s worn off, Yaz?” the Doctor pleads, voice quiet and sedated despite the indication behind her statement. “What if this is my only chance?”

Yaz’s gaze is glistening when she leans in to tuck the accessory over blonde locks, settling one of the circular, spongy components over her cuff-less ear and faltering before she closes her off to stimulation completely. Her sad smile breaks both of the Doctor’s hearts in two. “Then you don’t really mean it. C’mon. Music. It’ll help you relax.” 

“Yaz.”

“I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, okay? Get some rest.”

“ _ Yaz _ .”

“ _ Doctor _ ,” Yaz bites back with more desperation than she’d anticipated, turning before the Doctor can catch sight of her dampening pupils. “I’ll be in the other room if you need me.”

Like leaving a child to cry out rather than offering it the comfort both parties desire, Yaz slips from the room, away from a chorus of murmurings she has to force herself to ignore. She fights every instinct within herself not to pad the short distance back and simply give in; to selfishly offer comfort to her best friend and remain blissfully ignorant until morning breaks. 

Moving robotically, Yaz plucks the remote from her coffee table and thumbs at the red button offering life to her television, all before slumping into her sofa with the tension her earlier bath had helped ease. All at once, it comes tumbling back to the joints of her shoulders and neck, and with an exhausted sigh, she flicks through the channels until a familiar title catches her attention. 

A film about a girl with a head full of bright red curls plays on the screen before her; a classic from her childhood. 

Yaz’s focus flits between the screen and the knickknacks littering the space below the television — then towards her bedroom door — in bouts of unyielding anxiety. 

Her heart is stubborn in its breaking and her attention span is temperamental, leaving her clueless when she tunes back in to find the main character in a scenario utterly out of context. 

It takes her another ten minutes to recall the events of the film over the events of her evening if only to stop herself picking at the corner of her thumb nail and prolonging its inevitable irritation. To the sound of the Doctor’s most desperate whine so far, the main character, Annie, rescues a homeless dog from a gang of youths. 

That’s when she starts counting under her breath.

Despite the catchy, well-known songs the film continues to blare at her, the lilting sounds are no competition to the soft, pleading tones of her best friend’s voice. 

Yaz counts to six hundred and eighty before the Doctor’s voice dissipates into the quiet of her room, and when she peeks past the door another twenty minutes later, the Doctor’s eyes are closed and she’s wrapped herself around a deep purple pillow, nose nestled into the material while music continues to echo from the headphones resting over her small ears. 

The familiar rainbow emblazoned across her chest is a stark contrast to the purple of her sheets, blonde locks set against dark tones in a halo effect. 

If she weren’t so worried about her, she’d find the sight particularly adorable. But for now, in her distracted state, she simply wishes for her to remain in the hands of slumber until she’s got the Doctor back; _ her  _ Doctor back. 

Silently, Yaz approaches, if only to ease off the flow of piano solos from her mobile. 

The only indication of the action comes in a fatigued sigh from the Doctor’s parted, slightly drooling lips. If Ryan could see her now, he’d never let her live it down. 

Then she remembers the drugs still inhabiting the Doctor’s bloodstream and swiftly double-checks the rise and fall of her chest, the pulses beating steady in her neck and the inside of her wrist and any signs of paleness or the tinges of blue to her lips. 

Medical assessments complete, Yaz tucks the sheets closer around the Doctor’s sleeping form and reaches for the neck of her bedside lamp to switch the light off as quietly as possible.

The curtains are swept neatly closed, plunging the room into shadows before she toes back out and returns to the comfort of her couch. 

Despite willing sleep to find her, Yaz is unsuccessful in her quest. In ebbs and flows, her lids droop closed and she curls further into the warmth of her deep purple sofa — the Doctor’s housewarming gift when she’d first moved in — but she jerks awake in intermittent bursts of adrenaline which leave her mind groggy and limbs aching. 

Three hours later, she’s counting each item in her living room just for something to do. Then, she is alerted by a whimpered, choked noise from her bedroom, followed by the distinctive rustle of sheets and protesting limbs. 

“Yaz, Yaz,  _ Yaz, _ ” the Doctor is chanting beneath her breath when its namesake pads through the door, immediately rounding to her side with a featherlight touch to her shoulder. When she flicks her bedside lamp back on, she finds the Doctor’s eyes are squeezed shut as though bracing against an invisible force, her hands fisted in the sheets and brows pinched together in open fear. Yaz’s touch grows firmer, holding a trembling shoulder to keep her from squirming. “ _ Yaz.” _

“Doctor,” Yaz breathes, heart lurching as her best friend continues to cry out. “Doctor, you’re dreaming. It’s not real.” Her hold tightens, just slightly, but enough to halt anymore thrashing. Another comes to rest against a pinkened cheek when a solitary tear escapes, granting usually smiling cheeks a slow trail of moisture. 

In amidst her shallow slumber, the tension begins to gradually unfurl and, panting, whimpered breaths slow and deepen. 

Yaz’s relief is audible in the sigh which awakens the Doctor’s senses and the blonde’s eyes are half-lidded when she rouses, her swallow heavy and slow in the bob of her throat. 

“Yaz,” the Doctor croaks out, limbs like lead as she shifts to burrow into the palm pressed to her cheek. “I’m — I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?” she adds, brows furrowed in confusion despite the still-glossy sheen coating her eyelids. “I can go. I should go.”

“It’s okay, I wasn’t — no, no,  _ stay put _ . You’re not going anywhere like this, Doctor,” Yaz protests when the alien shifts clumsily and starts to lurch toward the edge of the bed. “You can’t even get up. Just lie back,  _ please? _ ” 

Under her pleading voice, the Doctor surrenders and slumps, exhaustion rolling off of her in waves. “Sorry,” she mumbles out, all dilated pupils and unsure gaze, as though the words rolling off her tongue are prisoners unshackled and let loose; and she cannot predict their direction or their intentions. 

“Are you okay?” Yaz probes once she has resettled, perching herself on the edge of the bed if only to keep the Doctor at ease. The further away she is, the more lost the blonde’s features turn in the low light. She’ll grant her this closeness, if only to ease the stubborn tug at her heartstrings. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” the Doctor replies in forced earnestness, and Yaz isn’t sure which question she’s answering. From the Doctor’s averted gaze and downtrodden features, the Time Lord isn’t exactly sure either. She drops her head to study the sleeves of her white undershirt when she approaches the next question, dragging the material over her palms and clenching her fists until half-moons indent her palms in a clear sign that this is unchartered territory. “Nightmares, y’know. The usual.”

“You… get them a lot?” Yaz probes gently, unable to hold back her concern when it’s inbuilt in her nature — both in general and her line of work. “Nightmares?”

The Doctor’s reply is instantaneous, her gaze darting to and fro before settling on Yaz like coming home. “Yes. Mostly about my past — the people who’ve travelled with me, the people I’ve lost. More recently about my own personal experiences — details I didn’t know until now.” She wins the battle against the drugs still plaguing her system before she can reveal more, but her struggle is clear through the fist clenched tight around Yaz’s pillow. “And you. Plenty about you, Yasmin Khan. Like just then.”

Yaz takes a moment, scanning the Doctor’s features to find only pained honesty in the downturn of her lips and the shadows casting hazel into the dark. She swallows with the weight of her words and the knowledge she’d contributed somewhat to the Doctor’s own self-torture. 

With this newly granted perspective, she can read her as clear as day. “That’s why you don’t sleep a lot.”

The Doctor’s nod is slight, and if Yaz had blinked at the wrong moment, she might have missed it. 

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” the younger woman reminds her, imploring her to see sense; to come around despite the drugs still in her system. “Please remember that. Over everything else. I’m here to listen, always.”

“I do,” the Doctor nods, firm and assured, but she’s still sheepish. “Just don’t want to be a burden. There’s a lot I’ve been through, Yaz. I’d never want to put that ownership on you. You’re too good — you’re not worth spoiling. And I’m fine,” she finishes with gritted teeth, but the substance overpowers her lie anyway. “I use that as a front, most of the time, because I don’t want you to worry even though I know it doesn’t work a lot. I find it easier to hide how I feel than to open up, which is why I’ve never told you how much I —” 

_ No, no, no. Too close. It’s too close. She can’t just sit by and —  _

A hand falls over the Doctor’s mouth — not her own — when Yaz senses her desperate struggle and jumps into action, offering up privacy and respect until the surge washes over. 

It takes a long few seconds and a heady gaze full of gratitude and guilt and desperation and adoration, on both parts, until the Doctor’s shoulders sink back into the mattress, lashes fluttering, and she can relax. 

Her breaths are leaping over each other in a bid to escape first and her gaze averts before she can take notice of the glossy film clinging to Yaz’s eyelids. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into the still night when Yaz breathes a shaky sigh. 

The Doctor doesn’t have to look at Yaz to know her cheeks are burning and her eyes are rapidly scanning in a search for dishonesty in her features. 

She doesn’t seem to find any, if the softening expression in her peripherals is anything to go by. 

“How — uh, how are your wrists doing?” Yaz inquests once enough time has passed for her to regain the use of her vocal chords. Her words waver with something indecipherable — embarrassment? Nervousness, perhaps? — but the Doctor’s gaze returns anyway.  _ How could she let herself get so carried away that she almost coaxed an intoxicated confession from her?  _ But, then again, the Doctor doesn’t exactly seem the type to communicate any such indication in any other circumstance. 

_ Perhaps this is the closest Yaz is going to get.  _

And there’s no doubt she’ll take it if it means the Doctor is happy. That, in the end, is all it will ever come down to. The Doctor’s happiness is worth every inch of heartbreak she could ever throw her way. That’s just how it is; that’s just how they are. 

“Sore, but nothing a bit more rest won’t fix,” the Doctor replies, vulnerability still sour on her tongue. “Time Lords heal faster than humans.” A beat passes, where she suppresses a slightly bitter laugh. “No thanks to someone.”

Yaz lets the last comment pass if only to pick it up when it doesn’t feel like such an intrusion, but her expression must display her concern as clear as day because the minute the Doctor takes her in, she baulks, clearing her throat. 

Yaz, nevertheless, continues her exam, gently peeling slightly sweaty hair from the blonde’s forehead to check over the once reddened mark. It has dimmed to a small, purple-green bruise, but the Doctor still winces when she wriggles her brows to test the tender skin surrounding it. “How’s your head? Do you want me to get any painkillers?” 

“Full of you,” the Doctor whispers in admission, wetting her bottom lip as if trying to drag the words back down her throat the second she considers her response. “Don’t need painkillers while you’re here, t’be honest.” 

Yaz’s next inhale is caught in her throat. “Doctor.”

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor manages, eyes squeezing closed.

Yaz shifts from the bed before the Doctor can even make an attempt to reach out.“Try and get some more rest, okay? Just — uh, I’ll be listening out for you.” 

“Goodnight, Yaz,” she says despite the big, sad eyes only communicating her need for company. She clutches the pillow closer and takes a slow inhale of the familiar scent still clinging to the material. “Thank you,” she adds when the deep purple sheets are tucked closer around her form. 

“Don’t mention it.” Yaz leaves the door ajar so if she were cursed with more graphic imagery come slumber, she’ll be the first one to know. “Night.” 

Her venture back to the sofa is dampened by a longing for closeness; for the Doctor’s warm presence at her side, but Yaz’s yellow, criss-cross patterned blanket will have to do for now. 

Sleep is unreliable in seeking her out and plunging her under, and with an exhausted frown, Yaz settles in for the long haul.

A short time later, in a bid to fight off fatigue, the Doctor plucks Yaz’s forgotten phone from the nightstand and, after almost shutting the device down twice, she drags up her notes app and begins typing. 

She types and types and confesses and drawls until light begins streaming in through the windows and birds chirp from nearby birches, and only then does she give in to the stubborn pull of sleep. 

In the light, she stands a better chance of washing away the remnants of the dark. 

Her legs are jellied and trembling when she rouses and slips from Yaz’s bed mid-morning, but as with most substances, cravings are induced to soul-destroying lengths. Her stomach grumbles and churns as she toes past her door and into the open-plan main room in the hunt for a specific sweet treat. 

She’s not quiet enough for the sleeping form on the couch, though, apparently, when a still wobbly, misplaced step and the surprise appearance of a bar stool results in a quiet yelp from the Time Lord. 

“Doctor?” Yaz blinks bleary eyes her way and it’s clear she’d slept fitfully through the night, if at all. “What are you doing? You should be —” She’s cut off by a yawn which makes the Doctor’s insides go all gooey. “In bed.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m fine now.” The Doctor shrugs in dismissal, scratching at the back of her neck when her stomach rumbles to attention once more. “Side effects of pravda serum: absolutely  _ ravenous _ cravings. Got any custard creams, Yaz?”

“Oh,” Yaz breathes, tousling her hair into something a little more presentable before she sits up and nods towards her kitchen cupboards. “On the left above the sauces. I keep a pack behind for when you come to tea. Don’t tell Ryan.”

“Tea at Yaz’s,” the Doctor crows as she leans up, suspenders hanging limply around her hips and sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her coat lays discarded back on Yaz’s bed, littered with spots of blood and smelling too clinical for her liking. “Always my favourite day of the week.”

“When you turn up on time, that is,” Yaz teases, the familiar back-and-forth a welcome change to temporarily avoid the elephant in the room. 

“Oi!” When the Doctor turns, it is with a mouthful of custard creams, and she hums low in her throat with the sated sensation of a craving fulfilled. “I’m always on time! Well, most times. Actually, I really ought to do better,” she concedes with a grin which doesn’t quite reach her eyes, biting into the next biscuit when Yaz moves to stand. 

The atmosphere between them eats away at the rest of the Doctor’s rambling, and with an audible swallow she shoves her hands into her pockets and rocks on her stripey-socked toes. 

“How are you feeling?” Yaz asks gently, leaning against the breakfast bar to help with her still awakening brain and limbs. “Has — um — is it out of your system now?”

“Fine, totally okay. I’m the king of okay,” the Doctor asserts in her familiar pattern, features reassuring enough to prevent Yaz probing further. For now, at least. “And yeah, it’s gone. All gone. Nasty stuff, that, Yaz.”

“Right, yeah. Of course,” Yaz replies empathetically despite the questions niggling at her gut. “So — so what you said last night? All that stuff — it was true?” 

The Doctor glances down at her toes, the fading stripes and their bobbled nature, then the wooden flooring at her feet, a hand springing up to touch her tender nose on instinct. Her gaze settles on the sofa, then, and the wrinkled impression Yaz’s sleeping form left on the plush fabric. 

Then, finally, with no little sense of deliberation, it settles on curious, pleading brown. 

“Yes. Yeah — it was,” the Doctor acquiesces, shoulders hunching in a nervous tick. “And — and all the things I didn’t say in full,” she adds, swallowing down the rest of the crumbs in her mouth. 

“Doctor,” Yaz breathes her name in a sigh; in a relieved, half-confession. Her admittance is on her lips when her blonde counterpart interrupts. 

“Yaz, wait —” the Doctor raises a hand, and in the time it’s taken for her to blink, she’s not sure who gravitated closer first. She is trembling when she reaches for one of Yaz’s hands, encircling both of her own around brown tones. “I had a whole thing — a whole plan of how I was going to do this  _ way _ before last night. Could you just hear me out for a sec? Just — just for now? Promise I’ll try not to ramble.” 

She fishes Yaz’s phone from the depths of her pockets and for a moment, guilt halts her in her tracks. “Oh, yeah, sorry. You left this in your room last night and I couldn’t sleep so I —  _ anyway _ . Look! I wrote it all out.” 

When Yaz’s wide eyes drop down to the screen displayed before her, she breathes a soft gasp at the lengthy speil of words down the page. 

“Hope you don’t mind. You can delete this after — I just. I need to do this. I need to get this out.” 

Yaz’s encouraging if a little flustered nod settles the rapid  _ thudthudthudthud _ in her chest momentarily, and before she gets lost amidst deep brown, she drops her gaze to the screen and straightens her posture. 

“I’m not usually one for soppy speeches and dramatic confessions of the heart, but Yasmin Khan,  _ you _ are brilliant and brave and  _ good _ and kind and  _ you  _ help bring this out of me — even when it’s the last thing I think I need,” she starts shakily, green eyes darting across the notes at a mile at a minute. 

“You challenge me, you question me, you educate me and you impress me every single day, without fail. You’re not perfect — nobody is, but if perfection could be redefined to mean courageous despite human flaws, and so,  _ so _ trying, I reckon I’d go back in time and leave a picture of you there.” A scrunch of the Doctor’s nose asserts her clumsy wording, but through a fresh sheen of tears, Yaz simply smiles. “Sorry, that was a bit clunky, but you know what I mean. I hope.”

“You’re okay,” Yaz murmurs through a watery giggle which sets the Doctor’s hearts thumping anew when she briefly lifts her gaze. “Go on.”

“Right, yeah, so.” She shifts her position, wetting her lips and swallowing through a dry throat. “Yasmin Khan, you also  _ terrify _ me,” she admits, memories of the words from the previous night coming back to haunt her. 

“You terrify me because you make me feel so much, and so quick. Loving you was like the flick of a switch, Yaz, all the way back on Kerblam.” She takes a breath before surging on, words fluid enough to deem her mobile unnecessary. So, setting it down, she clasps both hands around Yaz’s and meets warm, adoring eyes as though it’s the easiest thing she’s ever had to do. “When you went out of your own way to ensure someone else wouldn’t go nameless, I knew I had no choice but to fall head over — head over —”

“Heels,” Yaz reminds her through cloudy vision and a watery chuckle. 

“Heels, right, yeah. Still can’t quite figure those out yet,” the Doctor shares her chuckle, another bout of nerves easing the second Yaz squeezes her hands. “Anyway, yeah. I’ve been trying to push it down since then, because I thought you deserved someone who could grow old with you, to give you everything a human could — I still do, a bit, sometimes, because you’re  _ Yasmin Khan! _ You’re brilliant! What could you possibly want with someone like me?”

“Doctor —” Yaz starts on her protest, brows pinching, but the Doctor interrupts politely. 

“Hey, hey! Haven’t finished, shh,” the blonde laughs, but it’s teary, too, now. “I thought that, all the way up until you went on the mission with Ryan and got sent to the Kasaavin dimension,” she confesses, noting the sudden widening of Yaz’s pupils and eager to skip over the memory. “It was after that, I realised my time with you, with all three of you — is limited, and since then, I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you.” 

“Been a bit busy, haven’t we?” the Doctor scoffs, tension easing from her limbs with the weight of the words now hovering between them. “Uh — so this is me, Yaz, telling you.” 

Yaz swallows a lump in her throat and takes a steadying inhale before she meets her gaze again, smiling despite the tears rolling freely down her hot cheeks. “Say it.”

“Say — say what?” the Doctor whispers in innocent confusion until, working slowly, her mind clicks into place. “Oh! Well.” She beams, all glistening white teeth and bright red features. “Yasmin Khan, I am absolutely, without a doubt, stupidly and entirely in love with you. Have been for ages. Feels like a whole lifetime, t’be honest.”

The tears gracing Yaz’s features are a confusing oxymoron for the Doctor to decipher, and with a faint frown, her grip threatens to loosen entirely. “Did I do something wrong — was it something I said? Wait — don’t you — don’t you feel the same —” 

Yaz’s mouth is hot and firm as it swallows up the rest of her anxious questioning, trembling fingers sweeping into blonde hair and tugging gently to coax the Doctor into action. 

The second she does, the Doctor uses her last remnants of strength to nudge her back against the counter and kiss the oxygen from her heaving lungs. She laps her tongue past her parted lips when Yaz gasps, fisting a hand into her oversized t-shirt while Yaz’s free hand clasps at her hip and squeezes. 

She swipes her tongue along her teeth and whirls it against her own before a panting Yaz has to draw back for oxygen, forehead dropping to the Doctor’s shoulder. 

“Um — so just to be clear —” the blonde whispers breathlessly, chest heaving as she refuses to pull back just yet. It’s warm and Yaz is still holding her and she likes it when Yaz is this close. It’s a new sensation but she won’t be complaining any time soon. 

“I love you too, Doctor. Pretty sure I have since I first set eyes on you,” Yaz divulges, beaming through heavy lids and even heavier breaths. 

“Oh. Oh, that’s  _ brilliant _ ,” the Doctor announces, grinning bright enough to render the morning sun temporarily unemployed.

She reaches across the counter for her mobile phone when the Doctor has lazily slung her arms around her neck five minutes later, dotting gentle kisses to her hairline while she toys at the baby hairs gracing the back of her neck. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to start playing  _ Candy Crush _ after I’ve just told you all that,” the Doctor crows with a faint pout, but Yaz’s free hand tightens around her waist and she just laughs against her shoulder. 

“I just wanted to see the rest of what you had written down,” Yaz replies with a sweet smile which tempers the blonde’s pout down in record time. The Doctor flushes pink and presses said smile to the curve of Yaz’s neck, where she nestles to hide her face. 

“Weren’t my speech enough to satisfy you?” she grumbles faintly, but when Yaz strokes a hand through her tousled hair, she sags against her with a sigh. She’s a quick learner, that’s for sure, proven in the enticing brush of short nails against the base of her neck and its resultant low hum. 

By the time Yaz reaches the end of the Doctor’s half-drunken ramble, there are fresh tears seeping past her eyelids, and with a playful laugh, the Doctor cups her cheek and plants a kiss against her lips. 

It’s gentler this time, the slow movements and explorative pressure inviting a flood of fatigue back to Yaz’s form in gradual, lapping waves. 

She has to pull back from their kiss to yawn into the back of her palm in time, and the Doctor hums her acknowledgment with a tilt of her head. “You look exhausted.”

“Feelin’ a bit tired, not going to lie,” Yaz admits — and she  _ must _ be if she’s readily owning up to it. “I stayed up in case you — y’know, in case you needed me again.”

“Don’t have to anymore. C’mon,” the Doctor implores, stepping back to tenderly turn her towards her bedroom by her shoulders. “Bedtime for Yasmin Khan.” 

The rich purple sheets are still warm from the Doctor’s form when she peels them back and settles tired bones against her mattress, shifting onto her side to seek the fidgeting blonde out. 

The Doctor is distracted momentarily by taking the room in afresh, noting the collection of books set into the neat alcoves of the shelf beside her door, above her bed, and piled at her bedside. There’s a mirror set against the wall in the corner and, with a dopey grin, she offers up a wriggle of her fingers to the dusted glass. 

“Doctor?” Yaz murmurs a moment later, nose tucked against her pillow, which radiates the Doctor’s scent from every cotton corner and every dip. Hazel eyes greet her in reply a short second later. “Will you stay?”

The Doctor pauses at her bedside, glancing form warm, inviting sheets towards the door and back. “If — If you want? I spotted a copy of  _ Frankenstein _ earlier which I wouldn’t mind re-reading and I guess I could sit with you to —” 

“Doctor,” Yaz chides gently, playfully, voice half-buried into her pillow. 

“Rambling, right, yeah. I’ll just — I’ll just join you, shall I?” Without waiting for a response, the Doctor fetches the proffered book and jumps —  _ jumps—  _ onto the empty side of the bed. 

Yaz’s pointed glare is met with a smug smirk and the Doctor reaches across to comb her fingers in a slow caress through dark locks. “Sleep, Yaz. Big day ahead.” 

“Oh? You got plans?” Yaz drawls, leaning into her comforting touch with a faint sigh. 

“Nah,” the Doctor replies, using her free hand to flick to the first page of one of her favourite novels. “Every day’s a big day now, Yasmin Khan. I’ll make sure of that.”


End file.
